Viviane
by The Recalcitrant Raconteur
Summary: Enjolras had never looked at his tattoo, and he never wanted to. After all, some magic ink on his skin wasn't going to dictate who he could love. As a conscious human with free will, he had long since decided that the idea of soulmates is silly, and people should control their own destinies - at least, that's what he told himself whenever the urge to find his soulmate resurfaced.


**I present to you, another oneshot, perhaps even more poorly written than my other one. Alright, I don't own Les Miserables, or anything good enough to merit fanfiction about it, you know the drill. I don't think there's anything potentially triggering here, but we have a trans character and a bunch of queers, so if you're offended by that, get off this fic and get off this site, like 70% of the stuff here is slash. Cool, I think that's everything.**

Enjolras fancied himself a bit of a contemporary thinker - his ideas challenged some of the customs society had built. This didn't always win him favour in some circles, but he couldn't be bothered to lose sleep over others' opinions of him when he was too busy trying to break social barriers and stereotypes. For example, take soulmates.

He had decided years ago that the whole idea of having a soulmate was rubbish. There was no science, no real studies in genetics that could possibly prove why people get names tattooed on their wrists upon their tenth birthday. Is it magic? No, magic isn't real. But what else could explain the phenomenon? Most people were content with just accepting the fact that it happened and going along with it, but to Enjolras there was no proof that someone could be your soulmate when the only knowledge you have of them is their name. How can one be expected to fall in love with someone who's practically a stranger (you know, in _most_ instances) when all you have is their name? There's the occasional fortunate case where your Match is your best friend from primary school, but statistically, most people meet their soulmates when they're in their early twenties, and besides, so few are lucky enough to have met their soulmates before they're ten, they're considered outliers and not even counted in the graphs of average ages. Point standing, people are expected to immediately fall in love with someone without knowing their personality, their interests, their opinions, sometimes even their appearance! All in all, Enjolras considered the whole affair to be ridiculous.

He'd done several papers on his perspective of the situation, even going so far as to question if the whole thing was a sham, or if people didn't _actually_ fall in love, but were so in love with simply the _idea_ of soulmates that they convinced themselves that they're in love with the person tattooed on their wrist. And speaking of, how can someone be completely sure that someone is their soulmate? There are common names, quite a lot in fact. Sure, parents try to pick rather unusual names for their children so there's less uncertainty, but doesn't that leave traditional names to be lost? And it doesn't mean there aren't common names, it just means the common names are intricate and strange-sounding.

Sometimes, when life was getting to him, he'd absently wonder if everyone was in on the joke and he wasn't. Of course, the absurdity of the thought would often result in some eye-rolling and/or face-palming, but the doubts lingered on.

As it could be expected from his thoughts on the subject of soulmates, Enjolras was a firm believer in shaping your own destiny. After all, who wants their life to be controlled by a few letters on an arm? Enjolras had been nine when he first decided he didn't want a soulmate - he wanted to fall in love of his own accord. He bound his wrist with a cotton bandage. Very carefully, and with an insane amount of willpower, he made it thirteen years without having a clue as to the identity of his soulmate. As for his own identity… Well, the girl people thought he was upon his birth no longer existed. Enjolras sometimes idly wondered if his soulmate's tattoo had changed when his name did, but was content to accept that he'd never know.

Flash forward the aforementioned thirteen years to find Enjolras grumbling to himself as he shut his few fragile possessions away in a cupboard, taking the usual measures to spare any and all glass from the wrath of his drunken friends, most of which should be arriving any moment, hopefully not yet drunk.

It was a sort of unspoken tradition among Les Amis to invade one of their apartments once a month for drinking, games, and old tv show reruns. Enjolras, not the most social of fellows, usually managed to keep his tiny home out of the picture, but somehow he found himself elected as host that month, to his displeasure. For this reason could he be found moving his various piles of paper off the coffee table and into various other piles in another room, and replacing the pillows his mother had embroidered decorations on with heavy blankets from the closet he'd close to forgotten about. Courfeyrac had giddily informed him moments ago that everyone would arrive within the coming quarter hour, causing Enjolras to leap up and begin hurriedly tidying, all the while cursing the name of procrastination.

Despite his initial annoyance at being forced to play host, Enjolras was filled with fondness as he watched his friends traipse through the door and arrange themselves around the room. They all assumed their normal position, with some on couches, some cocooned in nests of blankets, and some wrapped in the arms of the others. Inevitably, Musichetta, their resident bartender who was a favorite of the bar's owner and was therefore allowed plenty of free drinks, had a bag of drinks slung across her shoulder - mostly beer - which she chucked to anyone who wanted one. No one had to ask - everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew everyone's drink orders. Sure enough, Enjolras was tossed a Coke, and Jehan some apple juice and vodka.

Yes, Enjolras had rather resolute opinions on why soulmates are silly, but he still got twinges of longing sometimes when he watched his friends interact with each other, seeing as half of them were already paired off. Once in a while, when watching Marius tuck a chunk of Cosette's hair behind her ear, watching Jehan smile fondly at Feuilly, watching Musichetta and Bossuet each give Joly a peck on the cheek… Once in a while, he itched to take off the glove which covered his wrist and learn for sure who he was to love.

"Stop," he chided himself under his breath. "You don't need ink to tell you who to love."

And it was true. Enjolras knew for a fact that he wasn't made of marble (despite Grantaire's insistence), and he was capable of love. Take, for example, Combeferre and Grantaire. He'd developed a massive crush on them both when they first met, and when he found out that they were each others' Match, it grew further rather than sputtering out and vanishing. As he got more acquainted with them over the years, he found himself stuttering less but blushing more, being nervous at the prospect of their presence but constantly craving their company. How could he not? Both were brilliant, and wonderful in their own ways. Combeferre had a passion for helping people and always managed to get excited over the smallest of things, something which was both endearing and slightly overwhelming at times, while Grantaire had a wicked sense of humour and a penchant for art. He also had a thing about perspective, something both Enjolras and Combeferre adored him for. That is to say, Grantaire was the type of person who had to see all sides of an argument before feeling informed enough to form his own opinion on it, and then he managed to incorporate that trait into nearly everything he did. During the meetings at the Musain, he was the cynic who always had to combat Enjolras's every claim with a reasonable one of his own, even though he agreed with Enjolras most of the time - essentially, every meeting was just a loud and public trial, as logical and eloquent as an actual court case. Bahorel, the resident lawyer, had compared the atmosphere to such on several occasions.

Perhaps Enjolras wouldn't use the phrase "hopelessly infatuated" to illustrate the situation he found himself in, but it was true to an extent. He'd read about people who'd fallen in love with someone besides their Match, and then killing that person's soulmate to keep them all for themselves, but now that he's seen them together he couldn't imagine it any other way. It wasn't Combeferre he loved, it wasn't Grantaire he loved. He loved Combeferre and Grantaire, and Combeferre and Grantaire loved each other, and they deserved each other - they were two completely different people, yet so similar. Like Grantaire's art, they were two opposite sides of the colour wheel, on separate sides of the world but complimenting each other perfectly. Enjolras, try as he might, couldn't see where he fit into that.

"Alright, who's up for a game!" Courfeyrac yelled excitedly. Everyone in the group had certain duties for their get-togethers, and it was Courf and Jehan who were in charge of coming up with something interesting for them to do before they popped in some movies or old shows (which Marius and Cosette were in charge of). Their previous ideas had ranged from trying to lucid dream as a group (it didn't work) to really intense The Floor is Lava. For three years, ever since they'd started doing these monthly parties, they'd come up with something new and interesting. Apparently today was the exception.

"Truth or Dare?" groaned Bossuet.

"We've only ever played once, and that was like two years ago and half of us weren't there. Come on, it'll be fun!" Courf clasped his hands hopefully.

"And it's not like we'll do it the dirty way," Jehan chimed in. "Most of you are already matched, and Eponine's ace. Obviously we're not gonna do that to you. No, this is just to make each other relive their most embarrassing moment and down garlic sauce and stuff."

Eponine scoffed. "Because that's so much better."

With a pleading, doe-eyed look cast at the room at large, Courf begged them to "just humour us, just this once!"

Silence fell upon the group. Deciding to use the distraction caused by everyone staring, unimpressed, at Courf and Jehan, Enjolras admired the contrast between Combeferre's dark fingers intertwined with Grantaire's slightly lighter ones. Of the three, Enjolras was the palest, and the only one to burn like a lobster in summer, something which the others took great joy in teasing him about. It had been remarked to him that looking "red and disgruntled" doesn't really keep up with the whole Marble Man image - Enjolras couldn't decide which annoyed him more, the "red and disgruntled" comment or the nickname, which had been used ever since Grantaire first met him despite Enjolras's constant attempts to dissuade them from saying it.

The silence, still reigning, was eventually broken by a heavy sigh and Feuilly muttering "Where's the harm?" in defeat. The two instigators spent the following minute triumphantly herding the group into a shape vaguely resembling a circle.

"I'll go first," Courf announced. "I thought of it, after all." Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Alright… 'Ferre, truth or dare?"

Combeferre sighed. "Dare, I suppose."

"Brilliant, start things off with a bang. I dare you to-"

"Don't make me leave the house."

"Goddamnit. Fine, draw anything you want on Ponine's forehead."

Combeferre sat and considered for a moment, then untangled himself from his blanket and went to quickly grab a permanent marker from the kitchen. Eponine's fierce glare as he approached, brandishing the marker (a startling shade of green), didn't discourage him from gently holding her face still and meticulously drawing something which Enjolras couldn't see from his angle. The second he stepped away, Enjolras peered at the scribbles on her skin, and promptly let out a very undignified snort which he would later deny. Combeferre, though no match for Grantaire in terms of art, had drawn a lovely detailed butterfly perched on Ponine's right eyebrow which had a small speech bubble emitting from it, inside of which were the words " _qu'est ce Combeferre?_ " in loopy, elegant cursive.

As she began to clamber up from her position of leaning on the couch, Courf held up a hand. "You're not allowed to see it until later." With a vicious scowl, Ponine settled back on the floor. "Move on," she spat.

Combeferre surveyed the room critically for a moment, before his eyes landed on Enjolras and he smirked wickedly. Enjolras definitely did not flush slightly at the look.

"So, Enjy..."

"Don't call me that."

"Truth or dare?"

After a short moment of consideration, Enjolras met Combeferre's gaze with a challenge in his eyes. "Dare."

"I dare you to show everyone your least favorite baby pictures."

"What makes you think I have any?" Enjolras asked, scrunching his eyebrows.

Combeferre gave him an incredulous look. "I've known you for years, don't think I don't know that your mum made scrapbooks when you were a kid and you kept them all."

Grimacing, Enjolras slowly stood and left the room, calling over his shoulder as he went, "I'll go get them."

Once Enjolras had left the room, Combeferre addressed the group as a whole. "This will probably take him a while, he'll pretend like he can't find them and then he'll flip through them to make sure they're all pictures he wouldn't mind us seeing. Can we move on?"

"I don't know, _can_ you?" Bahorel parroted at him. Combeferre sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching a bit.

" _May_ we move on?"

Bahorel nodded seriously. "Yes, we can. I'm going - don't argue. Grantaire, truth or dare?"

"Dare," Grantaire responded dryly. "Just to shake things up."

Gesturing to the thick band covering Grantaire's wrist, Bahorel said "Show us your Soulmark."

Cosette, on his right, slapped his arm lightly. "That's rude! Don't ask to see people's Soulmarks!"

"Don't worry Chetta," Grantaire said soothingly, unraveling the band. "It's not like he's a stranger."

Everyone scooted over as far they could without completely dislodging their respective partners and blankets in an attempt to crowd around Grantaire. Once the band was off, he held up his arm so his wrist could be displayed to them all. In large loopy script, Combeferre's name slithered up his forearm and crept onto the bottom of his palm, but to their surprise, a second name, in unobtrusive tidy print, sat beneath it primly.

 _Viviane._

It was Joly who voiced their shared thought first. "Who's Viviane?"

"We don't know," Combeferre said. In a single swift motion he yanked off his own glove and revealed the two names on his own wrist. Grantaire's, in his signature disconnected scrawl. And 'Viviane', in the same handwriting as on Grantaire's skin.

Suddenly Bossuet snapped. "I remember! When you first came to the meetings you were asking around about a 'Viviane.' I mean, didn't know one then and still don't now, but that explains why."

"Have you asked Enjolras?" Marius inquired. "He's the one who knows everyone who comes to meetings and rallies and stuff."

"Of course," said Grantaire and Combeferre together. They paused to smile tenderly at each other before Combeferre continued, "But he said he doesn't know any 'Viviane's."

Silence once again descended on the group as they all studied the names curiously. It was broken only seconds later when the door opened and Enjolras barged in, a checkered red book clutched under one arm.

"I managed to find one of them in a closet, and it's the one that has the earliest and probably east humiliating pictures anyway, so I- Why are you all so quiet? I have the scrapbook."

Shaking his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, Courf reached for it. Enjolras handed it to him with a bemused expression.

"Just to warn you though, keep in mind I was a baby girl, there wasn't any means of transitioning at that age, so I looked really different."

Grantaire sniggered. "Of course you did, Apollo, you were a newborn."

Blood rushed to Enjolras's face. "Obviously," he drawled. "I just wanted to make sure you're prepared. Also mum liked to write little stories and captions and stuff, but you don't need to pay attention to those."

Clearly still a little disoriented from the sudden change in conversation, Courf opened the book slowly. Lingering confusion and pity vanished, however, when he found himself face to face with a chubby smiling infant in a rainbow onesie. The room cooed as one, and Enjolras felt himself flush deeper.

"Apollo, you were so _tiny_!" Eponine exclaimed in jubilation.

"Glad to see you've only gotten cuter," Feuilly winked. Enjolras was sure the shade of red his face was less like a tomato and more like an apple. That is to say, dark enough to be verging on purple. Feuilly looked delighted. "You're even more adorable when you're flustered.

Looking across the room to avoid eye contact with Feuilly, Enjolras found his gaze locked on Combeferre, who was staring at Feuilly with an indecipherable, but altogether not entirely pleased expression. Enjolras knit his brows, wondering what Combeferre could be thinking.

"Aw, here's you and your dad!" Cosette squealed. "You look so disgruntled even as a two-week-old!"

Marius leaned over her shoulder. "His mum's wrote something here… 'Viviane and dad.'"

Suddenly the room went dead silent. Even though the floor was carpeted and had blankets scattered around, Enjolras was sure he would be able to hear a pin drop. All eyes were locked on him, while he just looked around in utter bewilderment. Their expressions ranged from Combeferre's "If what I think is happening is happening, it better not be" to Jehan's "I just found twenty euro in my pocket."

"What's wrong?" Enjolras asked tentatively.

"Enjolras, what does your tattoo say?" The urgency in Courf's voice startled Enjolras.

"I've never looked at it, you know that."

"You need to now."

Cradling his wrist to his chest, Enjolras stepped back slightly. "Why? You know my thoughts on the matter, I don't want to see them. What's going on?"

"You seem to be 'Ferre and Grantaire's soulmate."

His blood ran cold. It couldn't be, they would've known by now, and why would they keep from telling him until _after_ he'd fallen in love with them? This had to be a joke, they wouldn't have deliberately not told him they're his soulmates, it just seems like the decent thing to do, to tell someone you know their soulmates! Why would they-

Oh.

The scrapbook.

"You know I'm transgender," Enjolras said, trying to mask the shaking of his voice. "But I'd never told you that I was born with the name Viviane. Is that the name on your arms?"

The two nodded, their expressions unchanged, their lips still. Enjolras didn't move. He'd planned this for years - should he fall in love, he was going to do it without the influence of magic ink on his skin, he would do it because he can choose his own fate, he can make his own life, he can leave his own legacy! What was the good of trying to reshape the system, or at the very least uphold his own ideals, when even his heart seemed to be working against him? All of his years of hard work, of forcing himself to have a will of iron - constantly resisting the temptation of finally _looking_ and _knowing_ what, or who, exactly he was resisting. He'd come this far making his own way, and he wouldn't stop now.

But on the other hand… He didn't need the knowledge of his Match's name to fall for two amazing men, even if they weren't aware of it. In falling in love on his own, he had made his own way. Even if they werehis soulmates, the tattoos and the magic would not get the credit for making him love them - that was entirely his doing, not theirs.

"I think…" He cleared his throat, and started again. "I think we need to talk. Alone." A pointed glance to the other room. Combeferre and Grantaire stood and followed Enjolras to his bedroom.

They closed the door and then all three sat on the bed.

"Could you love me?"

Since a very young age, Enjolras had felt it better to let important questions be stated and important information known right off the bat. Having known him for several years, this didn't necessarily surprise the other two, but it did give them pause for consideration.

After exchanging a long glance between the two, leaving Enjolras to watch their silent conversation and try to decipher it, Combeferre spoke first.

"Yes. I already love you to some extent, and I believe it'll only grow."

Grantaire sniffed, then admitted, "I love you as much as I love 'Ferre. I have since the beginning. You're the only reason I started coming to the meetings, but my life has gotten so much better since then, and I wouldn't trade any of it for the world."

Struck momentarily speechless, Enjolras tried to distract himself by twisting the fingers of the glove, a nervous habit he'd developed several years back. He could feel his heart pounding, the beat to every love song Jehan had ever sang to the cafe on bad nights, the rhythm of all the cheesy poems he'd avoided over the years.

"I love you too. Both of you. I didn't want to, because I thought nothing would ever come of it because you're Matched and I wasn't, at least not to the ones I wanted to be, only I didn't want to be at all, but if I was I wanted it to be you, but I suppose now it _is_ you and this is so weird because it sort of feels like everything's crashing down but I'm flying at the same time, and you know I must have it bad because I don't use analogies, but really, can I even-"

"Enjolras, breathe!"

Looking down at his hands, twisting the glove, he obeyed the order and took a deep breath.

"Look, now that this has come out… We have all the time in the world. We don't need to be afraid of it. Enjolras, you don't have to look at your tattoo. Ever, if you want. We know that we love each other, so even if we're miraculously not your soulmates, we'll never need to know. Grantaire, we shouldn't move too fast with him, this is overwhelming for all of us." Combeferre, ever the logical one.

Grantaire grinned happily, and Enjolras noted with delight that this grin was the one reserved for whenever he felt like screaming with joy - all lopsided and toothy and positively radiating euphoria. Even when he spoke, his voice sounded lighter than usual.

"You're right 'Ferre. How about we start with a date?"

In the following years, Courf and Jehan joked constantly about how it was their fault the three had finally gotten together. After all, it was "our idea to play, Enj, so we should get the credit." It was true, that on that fateful day, when the trio exited the bedroom all clasping hands, with one hand still gloved, Courf had immediately leapt up to take a bow, to the eternal irritation of the small group.

It wasn't until their five year anniversary that Eponine noted with dismay that they'd never finished looking through Enjolras's baby pictures.


End file.
